Love Alters Not
by Rae D. Magdon
Summary: When Olivia discovers one of Alex's secrets, it forces her to reconcile her past and her job with the love she thought she knew. Olivia/Alex, Season 3. Please read all warnings.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** This story deals with some sensitive subject matter, including rape fantasies and BDSM. It takes place during an AU Season 3 where Alex and Olivia are already dating, in a happy universe where Alex doesn't disappear two seasons later. The narrative follows Olivia as she attempts to reconcile her experiences on the job and her own past with Alex's desires. All the sex scenes in the story are consensual, but there will be roleplays of non-consensual sex (some successful, some definitely not). This story also includes humiliation play and strap-ons, although that's pretty par for the course with me. I would love any and all kind, constructive feedback on this one, whether it's just a much-appreciated "great job" to let me know the subject matter spoke to you, suggestions for future chapters of the story, or gently pointing out things that you believe I could have handled better.

**. . .**

**Love Alters Not**

**. . .**

**Chapter One:**

I'm still shivering as I stand in front of the door to her apartment, even though I'm inside, protected from the ragged bursts of wind. The only reason my hands haven't frozen off is the warm takeout boxes I'm carrying, deliberately leaning them against my chest instead of using the handles so that my palms can be on the bottom of the hot cardboard. I had forgotten my jacket at Alex's earlier this morning, and braving the wind between the skyscrapers in nothing but a sweater wasn't one of my better ideas.

Finally, after a moment - Alex checking cautiously through the peephole, I'm sure - the door opens, and she's smiling at me, her hair still slightly damp from the shower and clinging to the pale line of her neck. "God, Olivia, you look frozen," she murmurs, taking the warm boxes and backing up to let me in.

I sigh, rubbing the tops of my arms through my sweater as I step inside and nudge the door shut with the sole of my shoe. "Didn't think it would get this cold," I explain, a little embarrassed. "I should have played it safe and brought my winter coat to work."

Alex stares at me for a moment from over the tops of her glasses, long enough for a small wrinkle to form in the middle of her forehead. Somehow, that look of concentration always makes my heart skip, even when it's not directed at me. Then, her face breaks into a soft, glowing smile. Suddenly, I don't feel so cold. "Sometimes I don't understand you, Olivia Benson," she sighs, dropping a kiss against the corner of my mouth.

It's not enough, and I try to press forward for more, but she's already turning around, loose sheets of silky blonde hair shifting between her shoulderblades as she heads towards the kitchen with a sway in her hips. I trail after her, taking the time for once to truly appreciate the sight of Alex Cabot walking away. In the squadroom, I have to watch myself. She's still wearing her work clothes, one of my favorite teal skirt and jacket combinations over a white blouse. She hasn't even taken her makeup off yet, and she looks as though she just stepped out of court.

"I wasn't expecting you yet," she says without turning around, setting the boxes on the center of the kitchen island.

I frown. Sometimes, I swear she can read my thoughts. "I got off a little early…"

This time, she does turn to face me, and she's still smiling, although I realize for the first time that she looks tired. I had been paying too much attention to the way her blue eyes looked framed by her glasses to notice the shadows underneath. "Well, I hope you're prepared to get off again, Detective Benson, because I have plans for you later." Her voice is a low purr, a tease.

I can't resist. I step forward, and she lets my hands settle on her hips, even cupping her fingers over mine to keep them there. When I lean down and forward ever so slightly to take her lips, she parts them for my tongue. But I don't take the invitation. Not yet. I kiss her slowly, thoroughly, savoring the softness of her mouth and the satisfied little sounds she makes as my lips skim hers.

Finally, I pull back. The last of the coldness is gone. "Yeah? Well, I have plans for you now." Alex spares a glance towards the takeout boxes, but I slide one of my hands up along her stomach, between her breasts, only stopping to grip her chin and refocus her gaze on me. "That can wait. I can't."

She melts into me, tilting her face for another kiss as my lips close over hers again. This time, she is the one to drag me forward, walking us both towards the kitchen island. The small part of my brain that isn't consumed by Alex is impressed that she can walk backwards so quickly in heels. But she's so warm and eager in my arms, letting me slide a thigh between hers, making soft, encouraging noises against my mouth. I bite her lower lip, tugging it between my teeth as I pin her.

Her lips pull an inch away, just far enough to murmur my name. "Liv…"

My other hand, the one that isn't tangled in her hair, leaves her hip. I tug her jacket down over her shoulders, leaving the sleeves bunched just above her elbows, trapping her arms behind her. The new position pushes her breasts out, forcing the buttons of her blouse to pull a little tighter. My eyes flick up, to the throbbing point just above the dip in her collarbone, and I unloop the first two, revealing a hint of white lace. Her chest shudders as she takes in an unsteady breath.

I'm torn between taking what I want, and giving her what she wants. If Alex has her way now, she won't want to stop until dinner is cold and we've collapsed in bed together, too exhausted to even shower until tomorrow morning. But even though I want her - God, do I want her - I haven't eaten anything since this morning, and I'm starving. A quick one will have to tide her over.

I pull the collar of her blouse to one side, trailing a string of hot kisses up from the edge of the fabric to the sensitive place just beneath her jaw. She whimpers and lifts her chin to give me more room, but I stay where I am, grazing with just a hint of teeth. Her hips surge forward, pushing against my thigh, but her skirt is still in the way. I reach down, sliding both of my hands just under the hem, and tug it up. She says my name again, louder this time, and something in me sparks. I'm relieved that her stockings stop at mid-thigh, and I don't even bother pulling down her underwear. I just push aside the scrap of lace covering her, groaning a little against her throat when warmth meets my fingers.

She hooks one of her knees around me, the heel of her shoe digging into the back of my thigh, and one of her hands slides into the back pocket of my jeans. Alex doesn't want me to tease her. She wants me inside, as deep and hard as possible. I slide my hand a little lower, stretching her with one finger, then two when I'm sure she's ready. Tight, clinging velvet grips me all the way to the knuckle, and her pulse spikes against my lips.

"Liv, please - fuck!" I cut off her begging by thrusting up, even though I'm already buried as deep as I can go. I find the hard point of her clit, circling until I feel it pulse under the pad of my thumb.

"God, you're so tight," I growl, right beside her ear. It sends a shiver through her whole body, and she rocks forward onto my hand, covering it with more wetness. More heat. More of her. "And you're already so close to coming."

She is close, desperately close, and her heartbeat is getting faster and faster. She's pressed so tight against me that even with clothes between us, I'm having trouble remembering where our bodies end. I drag my fingers out just to hear the perfect sob that breaks in her throat, catching against the swollen, ridged place inside of her. She nearly screams when I pump back into her again. "Yes," she hisses, tilting her head back. Her hand stays in my back pocket, giving her leverage as she tries to ride my fingers, but I won't let her. I hold still until she stops, then keep going once she's learned her lesson.

I can feel the exact moment when she surrenders. To me, to the rhythm and force I've chosen. And then she breaks, letting her head fall back and bracing herself against the edge of the island with her free hand, french nails scrabbling to find a hold somewhere. She can't speak anymore, and I know I'm fucking the words out of her, but I can read her mind. She wonders why she even bothered fighting my tempo in the first place.

"That's it, sweetheart. I want to feel you come around my fingers. In my hand." It's a little tamer than the dirty talk she usually likes, words that are sometimes hard for me to force out. But it's enough. She jerks, freezes, and comes, pulling tight around my fingers and screaming her pleasure to the ceiling and the apartment above. My hand is covered in her wetness, and it's easy to keep taking her through every twitch, every pull of muscle, every shudder.

Moments later, it's over, and she's slumped against my chest, panting into my shoulder and shivering with aftershocks every few seconds. I wait a while before I pull my fingers out, and I feel a sense of loss when I do. She lets out a sigh, but doesn't say anything. Instead, she brings my hand up to her face and wraps her lips around my fingers, sliding her tongue between them.

Over the past ten months, I've gotten used to Alex's habits. The way she always cleans my fingers after I fuck her, if she gets the chance. The way she shivers when I bite her hard enough to leave a mark on her fair skin. The way she runs her fingers through my hair, redirecting me to kiss back up along her stomach when I try to take her in my mouth more often than not, and opens the bedside drawer for one of our toys instead. When I asked why, she said I should use my handcuffs if I wanted to go down on her. At first, I thought she was joking. Then, I realized it made her come faster.

"That was amazing," she says after I pull my fingers out with a soft pop. "You're amazing." Her hair brushes my cheek, and I inhale the floral scent of her shampoo. Apple blossoms. "God, I would be on my knees, sucking you off right now if I didn't know you would stop me."

"Rain check," I whisper as she lowers her foot back to the floor, a little unsteady on her heels after her orgasm.

"With or without your cock?"

That had been another surprise. Not the fact that Alex wanted me to use one, but how often she asked for it. The first time she had wrapped her fist around the base and slid her perfectly glossed lips over the head, grinding the seat against my clit as she took me into her mouth… I came in seconds. I hadn't even realized I could orgasm that way.

Even though she's not what I'm used to, we're good together. Really good. Some of the best sex I've ever had in my life. She says it's the same for her, and I believe it. But sometimes, when I'm on top of her, pumping into her and filling her as much as I can, she closes her eyes, almost like she's shutting herself away in her own head for a few seconds because it's too much.

It's one of the times when I don't know what she's thinking.

When she realizes I haven't answered her, she pulls her skirt back down and shakes her head at me, giving me a slight push towards the sink. "Wash your hands," she murmurs, dropping one last kiss on my cheek. "I'll get dinner and open some wine."

I raise my eyebrows. "Wine?" I can't resist asking. "With Thai?"

She shrugs. "Why not wine with Thai?"

I don't have a good reason, and honestly, a glass sounds good. But never more than a glass. A few unpleasant benders during college and years of growing up with an alcoholic parent were enough to tell me that if I developed a serious relationship with booze, the resulting break-up would be nasty.

While she plates the food, I wash my hands in the sink, enjoying the smell of citrus, but wishing it didn't have to replace her. I wipe my hands dry on my jeans and turn around just in time to see her toss the empty boxes in the garbage can. She reaches up to open the liquor cabinet, and suddenly, I remember something. "Hey, did I leave my jacket here? The last time I saw it was this morning…"

Alex thinks about it for a moment. Then, her face brightens. "Check the back of the sofa," she says. "Do you want to eat out there, or in here?"

"Either." I give her another smile and head back for the living room, trying to remember if I saw the jacket when I came in or not. It's my favorite, but I think Alex likes it even more than I do. Probably because it's leather. On special occasions, I indulge her by wearing the jacket and nothing else.

My jacket is right where she said it would be, draped over the back of the couch. I pick it up and tie the sleeves around my waist, knowing I'll forget it otherwise. Then, I happen to glance down at the cushions. They're all covered in papers, although there's a small nest at the far edge of the couch. Just looking, I can picture Alex curled up there, legs tucked neatly beneath her as she skims through a file.

Then, I frown. Something is niggling at me. Call it detective's instincts.

Her docket is mostly clear right now after her last two convictions. Elliot and I have a few cases pending, but nothing immediate. The past week has been quiet for the entire squad. Why bring so much work home? Why invite me for dinner if she knew she was going to be swamped?

I circle around the couch and pick up the nearest file. Not to snoop, I tell myself. Just because I'm curious. I frown when I see the name Joe Poletti scribbled onto the outside. "But he was convicted two days ago," I say, talking to myself under my breath. Pam Tilden's dog earring had sealed the case, even though the divers hadn't found her head. What did Alex need with his file?

I open it, and regret the decision after only a few sentences. Poletti's disgusting stories. A couple lines are highlighted. Unfortunately, I've picked the one where the rapist shocks his victim to death after torturing her. Hearing Alex read the first page in court was bad enough. "I can't believe he was actually stupid enough to send these to convicted felons," I mutter, slightly comforted by the fact that he's one now, too. Plenty of time to write in prison, but no victims to take out his sadistic behavior on, either. I hope he rots there.

I close the file and set it on the coffee table, wondering what the hell Alex is doing with it. The trial is over. Petrovsky locked him away for the maximum sentence allowed. Then, another paper catches my eye. I pick this one up, too. More lines are highlighted, but as I skim over the first few paragraphs, I notice differences. This one actually uses commas, for one. And as I read, I begin to realize that it's about two women. I frown, trying to remember if any of the stories I had viewed during the investigation matched this one, but I already know Poletti isn't the author. Even without taking the grammar into account, this doesn't seem like him.

For a split second, I consider calling out to Alex. Asking her what on earth she's been working on. But instead, I read a line of dialogue. The word 'whore' is highlighted in yellow. Next to it, '17 - degradation' is scrawled in red pen. Alex's handwriting. It takes me a while to realize that she's actually counting words, making lists. Curious, I flip to the back of the story. She has an entire chart written out. Words, phrases, actions, all with numbers below them in a grid.

I set the story down, blinking to try and push back the fog that is slowly creeping into my head. Even my movements feel thick and clumsy as I open the file again, flipping to the back of Poletti's story. There's a chart scribbled on it, too, in pencil this time, with several eraser marks. Some of the words are the same. Others are different. My hands shake, and I almost drop the file again, unsure what I'm looking at, but convinced it isn't good.

That's when I hear her voice behind me. "Olivia? What are you doing?" It is not friendly or loving this time. It is sharp. Accusatory. Panicked.

I jump, drop the file, stumble back. Normally, I always hear her coming, but this time… I swallow. She's standing behind me, holding perfectly still with a bowl in each hand. A fork for her, chopsticks for me. "Alex. What is… this?" I gesture at the papers, unwilling to touch them again for some reason.

Alex does not answer at first. Instead, she looks at me for a long moment, studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. But I stare back at her, unwilling to be intimidated into taking back the question. I'm not sure why, but I need to know.

Finally, a flicker of softness returns to her blue eyes. At the same time, the lines in her face pull tighter, and she sighs. "Those are some of Joe Poletti's stories. Not exactly pleasant before-dinner reading material. Put them away."

But I don't put them away. There's more she isn't telling me. Alex Cabot is an excellent liar, but the almost frightened way she said my name when she came up behind me has already given her away. "All of them?" I ask, already knowing what she's going to say.

She sighs again, setting the bowls on a clear part of the coffee table before slumping onto the couch. This time, she does not meet my eyes. "No. Not all of them. Some belong to me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

"Why?" I say before I can stop myself, although it's not the question I meant to ask. There are so many others racing through my mind, jostling for space, shouting in my brain before they're swallowed by a slow, creeping fog of dread. But my throat is stopped up, and I can't force anything out except for that one, stupid word. Why?

"Why?" Alex folds her legs beneath her skirt, causing the hem to ride up along a sleek thigh, but I barely notice. Somehow, I'm numb to her. She stares at me over the tops of her glasses, and I can see the tiredness in her eyes as she reaches up to adjust the frames. "I don't know the answer to that, Olivia. I just like them." She pauses. "I wish I didn't."

"And the graphs?" I ask. "All those charts?"

Alex pulls her lower lip between her teeth, an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. It is not like her at all. Finally, she sighs. "A little literary analysis. I wanted to prove to myself that Poletti and I were different. That the fantasies in our heads were different."

"And?"

"And they were different," Alex says. She hesitates again. "But not different enough to make me feel better."

"Different how?" Part of me feels bad for pushing her, but not bad enough to stop. There is a feverish sort of heat inside of me, a confused sear of worry and pain and betrayal that is slowly burning me from the inside out.

"I can't get aroused if there are men involved," she says. "Or when someone gets killed or mutilated. I really did almost throw up when I had to read Poletti's stories in court."

I am not sure why, but this only makes me angrier. I don't want to know any more details, but it's obvious that Alex has thought this through. She probably analyzed it in her own brain long before she ever analyzed it on paper. And she didn't tell me. Not once. She kept it a secret.

But maybe I should have known. There were signs. Have I been deliberately blocking them out? Ignoring them? Suddenly, I remember all the times I've gone down on her, and pieces click together. The way she asks for my fingers right at the start, then loses herself in her own head instead of looking at me. I've gazed up along the beautiful, flat expanse of her stomach so many times, watching her breasts rise and fall, waiting for her eyes to open. But they hardly ever do. When we first started dating, she could barely come that way at all, but she humored me. I thought she had eventually learned to enjoy it. I thought that maybe she had just been self-conscious. She was the only woman I had ever been with who could take or leave oral sex.

I often wondered what she was thinking in those moments. Now, I know.

"Is everything we've done some kind of lie?" I blurt out. I regret the words the second after I say them, but I'm too angry to hold them back. She should have told me. This isn't the kind of secret you keep from someone you love. Someone you trust. Someone you whisper to at midnight. "You just… what, pretended I was raping you every time we made love?" Suddenly, my anger devolves into fear. Maybe something about me made it easy for her to pretend. She knows about my past. Knows who my biological father was and what he did. Maybe -

"Of course not." Alex recoils, obviously hurt, and presses herself against the arm of the couch. I can tell she desperately wants to look away, to break our eye contact again. But she won't let herself. "Of course not," she repeats. A little softer, a little sadder. She stares at me with wide, open eyes, and they are swimming with tears, willing me to believe her. "I love making love with you." When I don't respond, she stands up, taking my hands. I let her, but my fingers stay limp, refusing to curl around hers. "Olivia, please…"

"Did I do something to make you this way?" I ask, not sure whether to be angry at her or afraid of myself. "Did I…" I can't finish. My focus is being torn in two directions, and I feel like I'm being torn along with it.

Alex shakes her head and lets my hands fall. "No. I've had these thoughts since I was twelve."

That shocks me into silence for several moments. Twelve? Twelve years old? I knew what rape was when I was twelve, but only because my mother let it slip years earlier. I knew it was terrible and shameful, and that it was where I had come from. And that it was the reason my mother drank. At least, I knew that it was why she drank on my good days. On my bad days, I was convinced that she drank because of me.

"When I was growing up, normal twelve year olds cared about which stickers their friends put on their trapper keepers, Alex," I say, my voice hinging on desperate.

"I wasn't a normal twelve year old," Alex says. "And neither were you." The rest of the sentence is implied: and neither are the countless young victims we try to help every day. I want to believe children that age are innocent, but so many aren't, whether because they've been abused, or because puberty hit early and with a vengeance. Thanks to my mother, I had certainly lost my innocence by then.

"You should have told me," I insist. "This is important, Alex-"

"And when was I supposed to tell you, Olivia? After you've interviewed a ten year old girl who was raped by her stepfather? Before Warner calls you in to look at another dead victim so you can match it to the serial rapist you've been tracking? Or on one of the nights when you cry for what happened to your mother?"

"That isn't fair," I snap, pulling away from her as quickly as I can. "I would have listened." But, deep down, I wonder if that's really true. I want to believe that I would have listened. That I would have tried to understand. But after a hard day like the ones Alex described, I'm not sure. And right now, I just feel sick.

"I know you would have listened," Alex whispers. She continues carefully, hesitantly, and I realize that she's ashamed. I have seen Alex Cabot angry, disappointed, and even devastated, but I have never seen her ashamed before. "But I love you too much to ask."

To ask? Ask what? Ask me to listen, or ask me to rape her? I'm not sure I want to know.

I begin to circle the coffee table, unwilling to sit down on the couch near Alex and unable to hold still. There is a pounding, insistent throb at the front of my head, thudding harder and harder even when I bring my hand up to put pressure on my forehead and temples. "You work the same job that I do. You see what the victims go through. And you still want to be raped?"

"Of course I don't want to be raped." I'm almost relieved to hear an edge of annoyance return to Alex's voice. It's an improvement on the apologetic whispering. "I have fantasies about it, but those are completely different. In a fantasy, I have complete control. And I didn't tell you about them because you didn't need to know."

That makes me whirl back on her before I can turn the corner of the table again. "I didn't need to know?" I bite out, curling my fingers into fists. They shake with tension as I hold them at my sides. "Alex, I had every right to know!"

"Why?" She narrows her eyes at me, lips pressed together. "Do you bring all of your porn to me for approval before you get yourself off? Do you tell me every single thing that goes on in your head?"

"That isn't the same, Alex."

"It's exactly the same. This was a fantasy I had no intention of ever asking you to realize with me, and I knew that telling you would cause a lot of pain for both of us. I didn't want to hurt you, so I kept it to myself."

My shoulders slump. My hands unclench. My breathing slows down. I want to deny it, but I can see the truth written on Alex's face. She had kept her fantasies a secret to avoid hurting me, not to protect herself. I'm not sure whether that makes me feel better or worse, but the pain in my chest makes me wonder if my heart is about to crack in half.

"I wish you'd told me," I tell her, even though I'm not sure if it's the truth. Part of me already wishes that I didn't know.

"No - no, you wish I wasn't like this." Finally, Alex tears her eyes away from mine and stares down into her lap instead, where her hands are folded carefully over her thighs. "It's all right," she says. "Most of the time, I wish I wasn't like this, too."

My anger twists into guilt instead. She's right, I realize. I do wish she wasn't like this. However much I hate knowing that she fantasizes about something as horrible as rape, however much I hate the secret-keeping and the deception, however much I resent her for springing this on me even though I asked… she has to hate it even more.

As the first wave of hurt begins to fade, other feelings rise to the surface. I love Alex. I want to comfort her. I lower myself onto the couch beside her, and when she doesn't look up right away, I reach out and put one of my hands over hers.

"You really weren't going to tell me, were you?"

Alex shoves her glasses further up on her nose again before she raises her chin, but I catch her swiping her fingers beneath them, probably brushing away a few stray teardrops. When she looks up at me, though, I can't tell that she has been crying. "No. I wasn't. You're the kindest, gentlest, most honorable person I've ever met, Olivia Benson. I couldn't ask you to be something you're not, even if it's only pretend."

I take Alex's hand, letting her fingers lace with mine, letting our palms press together. Even after all this, it feels incredibly right just to hold her hand. "So, where do we go from here?" I ask, my voice breaking a little with uncertainty. I'm calm for the moment, but I can still feel hurt coiling in my chest, threatening to tighten its hold and choke me again. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't want you to do anything," Alex says. "I just want things to stay the way they are." She swallows, breathes slowly, leans a little closer. "I want you to stay."

"I never said anything about leaving," I say, stroking my thumb over the soft blue vein that runs across the back of her pale hand. But for one, guilty second, when Alex confessed that the other stories were hers, I had thought about it. Thought about running from the apartment, and going… where, exactly? Not back to my place, where the loneliness would creep in and leave me nothing to think about but Alex. And not to Elliot's, where I might be walking in on a family dinner. Back to the bull pen at One Hogan Place, maybe.

But I haven't left. I am still here. That, at least, is one thing I have done right tonight.

Alex's relief is visible. The line of her shoulders drops, and she sighs as she tucks her cheek against my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her. "Olivia," she mumbles into the sleeve of my sweater, nuzzling closer to my neck, "let's just forget about this. You know now, but nothing has to change."

"Okay," I whisper, grazing my lips against her silky hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. "Okay. Nothing has to change."

But even as I say it, I know it is a lie. Things have already changed, and there's no taking it back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:**

She is arching, writhing above me, hands fisting into the sheets. Her hips quiver, torn between holding perfectly still and seeking the warmth of my mouth. I fold my lips around the hard bud of her clit, pulling at it, lashing it with my tongue. But at the same time, my gaze drifts up along her body, past her twitching stomach and the hard pink tips of her breasts to study her face. Her glasses have slipped down the bridge of her nose, and her hair is tossed over the pillows, but she barely moves. Her mouth falls open in a silent scream, but her eyes stay shut.

I drag my tongue lower, to the pulsing ring of muscle at her entrance, and slide it forward to taste her. Alex's flavor is always wonderful, the perfect mix of salt and sweetness, just bold enough to stay in my mouth until I swallow once or twice. But this time even though I have been trying to get her off for a while, there isn't a rush of wetness to greet me. Normally, she coats my fingers until the flood slips down past my wrist, or covers my thighs and lower belly if I'm wearing my cock. Sometimes, she even ruins the sheets.

I ease off the pressure and back away. She whimpers as I press a few more soft kisses to the tip of her exposed clit, trembling a little, but does not beg me for more or try to follow my mouth. She is frozen, lost in her own head, or perhaps caught by indecision.

It has been one week since I discovered the story. One week since she confessed her fantasies to me. One week spent playing pretend, trying to make believe that everything is still normal between us. But it's not, and I don't think it ever will be again.

I glance at the clock. Thirty two minutes have passed since I first kissed up along Alex's thigh, since I draped her other knee over my shoulder and tried to lose myself between her legs. For a moment, I consider stopping. Either Alex is fighting not to fantasize, or she has been this whole time and feels too guilty about it to come. Then again, getting her to come this way has never been easy. Before, I thought of it as a special sort of challenge. Now, it just makes me feel depressed.

"Alex?" I say, hoping that the sound of her name will bring her back from wherever she is. The muscles in her lower abdomen twitch. Her head shifts a little. She spreads her legs wider, revealing pink, glistening, vulnerable lips. I am not sure she even hears me, or if she does, she isn't sure how to respond.

I start to lower my head again, brushing my fingertips along her knee to let her know I'm still there, but one of her hands shoots down and grips my hair. She is gentle, but she is clearly telling me not to continue. "Liv," she breathes, her voice shuddering even worse than her chest as she breathes. "Liv… I - I don't think I can…" She finally opens her eyes, and there are tears shimmering in them behind the lenses of her glasses.

I realize what she means immediately. For a moment, I am disappointed, but her pain and frustration is so obvious that I know I can't show any of my own feelings. It would be too much for her right now. Instead, I slide back up the mattress to lie beside her, looping one arm around her waist and pulling her tight against me.

She flips onto her side, snuggling into a spooning position, and when her body curls into mine, I can feel her start to sob. I stroke soothing lines up and down her arm, trying to focus on making her feel better without words. It is easier to deal with her feelings right now than my own. They are still a confused, painful mess, and I cannot even begin to sort through them. "It's okay," I murmur, kissing just behind her ear. The soft place she loves. "It's okay. You don't have to come every time…"

"It hurts," she whimpers, burying her face in the pillow. A few strands of her hair get caught in my mouth, and I brush them aside as unobtrusively as possible. "Liv…"

"I know it does," I say. It doesn't happen often, especially not anymore, but Alex absolutely hates it when she can't come. It drives her insane. She says there is an aching, unpleasant fullness between her legs afterward that she can never get rid of, and trying harder to get off only makes it worse. My stomach sinks. Now, I am starting to understand why. She has not confirmed it, but I already know.

Those are the moments when she needs her fantasy. When she needs to be 'raped'.

I want to pull away, to roll off the mattress and run for the bathroom, to close myself off while I struggle to regain at least some control of my thoughts. But Alex is still shaking in my arms. I can't pull away and leave her alone now. "It's okay," I say again, not sure what other words of comfort to offer her. I keep stroking her arm, and then reach up to play with the soft strands of her hair. She is so beautiful that it hurts to look at her sometimes.

I wonder why someone so beautiful, inside and out, can be aroused by something so ugly.

Alex sighs, then shifts on the mattress, making it groan a little and wrinkling the covers beneath us even further as she turns to face me. I let my hand cup the side of her cheek. So far, she has not let the tears in her eyes fall yet. "No, Liv," she whispers, blinking slowly at me behind the frames of her glasses. "It's not okay. I should have been able to. I don't know why I…"

"Don't lie," I tell her, running my thumb over the soft swell of her cheekbone. "Not to me, Alex."

Alex's lips press together, and her pulse jumps at the side of her throat. She stares at me for a long moment. "I hope you don't think this is about you," she says. "I hope you don't think this is because you're doing something wrong, or not doing enough." Her eyes flicker away. "Sometimes, I'm just… broken. My mind goes places I wish it wouldn't, and then when I try to fight it, my body won't do what I want it to do."

A question tugs at me, one I can't stop myself from asking. It has been growing in the back of my mind all week, festering there like some kind of wound that won't heal. "Alex-" I have to stop and swallow before I can continue. "When your mind goes there..." I can't bring myself to be any more specific. "What are you thinking about?"

A line appears in the middle of Alex's forehead, and she narrows her eyes at me. "I don't think we should talk about that right now, Olivia."

She's right. I don't want to know. I'm not ready to hear the details yet. Maybe I'll never be ready. But there is one thing I need to know, or I think I'll go insane. "Okay. But… who are you thinking about?"

This time, her eyes widen. I watch a flash of panic cross her face, but now that I've asked the question, there's no taking it back.

"Liv," she says, the pitch of her voice rising, almost pleading with me. "Don't make me answer that. Please." But I keep staring at her, pressing her without words. I have to hear her say it, even though I think I already know the answer. Finally, she breaks. "Sometimes, the person isn't real," she says. "She's just some shadowy figure, not fully formed in my head."

"But sometimes?"

She lowers her eyes guiltily. "Sometimes, I think about you. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

No. It's not what I wanted to hear, but it is what I expected. However, listening to her admit it isn't the crushing blow I thought it would be. Instead, I just feel a slow, sinking pit open up at the bottom of my stomach. "Why?" I ask. "Why do you think about me?" The second half of the question remains unspoken. Is it because of my father? Because something about me reminds her of how a rapist should act?

Then, Alex surprises me. "Would you believe it's because I love you?"

"Because you love me?" I say, feeling the words out. They don't make sense to me.

"I work with you, Olivia. I know how awful rape is. How damaging it can be. If I want to explore such a dangerous fantasy, even if it's only in my own head, it… it feels safer to think about someone I trust. Someone I know would never hurt me that way."

At first, I can't respond. She has taken what I was afraid of and completely turned it around. My first reaction is denial. She can't be telling the truth. Something dangerous and violent about me must have attracted her. It's in my blood, after all. She just doesn't want to hurt me.

But then I breathe slowly and think about it some more. I look into Alex's eyes, and I don't see a lie there. "Liv," she says, and this time, she is the one to reach out and cup my cheek. "I had these fantasies for years before I met you. I have no idea why, and I'll probably never know. They have nothing to do with you, and they weren't something you caused."

"I know," I say. "I just…"

"Olivia, I'm not attracted to you because I think you're going to rape me. Do you have any idea how hurtful that is? Not just to me, but to yourself?" She's right. I know she's right. But still, part of me has trouble believing it. Alex runs her fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp. As tense as I am, the familiar, intimate gesture starts to calm me down. "I'm attracted to you because you're kind. Because you're gentle. Because I know I can trust you." She pauses and fluffs my hair a little with her hand. "The butch haircut you've got right now and the tight abdominal muscles don't hurt, either."

I can't help it. I let out a short laugh. I have absolutely no idea how she's gone from needing my comfort to comforting me, but Alex has always been strong. Stronger than I am right now. Maybe talking through this with me has helped her feel a little less guilty. I hope so.

My eyes drift over towards the clock behind her head, and I see that it's a little past midnight. Both of us have to be at work early tomorrow. Not together, of course. Elliot knows about us, and Cragen probably suspects, but the two of us have to stay closeted because of our jobs. It's inconvenient, but we both love our careers too much to change things right now. Besides, Alex is a vast improvement over the revolving door of ADAs we had before. Only Carmichael bothered to stick around until she came along.

"Thanks, Alex," I say as I turn over, hoping she'll take the invitation and cuddle up against my back. She does, tucking her thighs beneath the curve of my backside, and we fall into a comfortable spooning position, completely opposite of the way we were before. Despite Alex's crack about my haircut, I still like to be the little spoon sometimes.

Alex kisses the back of my neck, and a warm, comfortable feeling starts to seep through me, making my arms and legs feel heavy. My day hasn't been too active, mostly paperwork, but I'm emotionally exhausted. "I love you, Olivia," she whispers against my skin, nuzzling into the back of my shoulder for a moment.

"I love you, too," I whisper back. And for right now, at least, I believe that love will be enough to make things between us good again.

. . .

**AN: **To answer some questions that were brought up in the reviews...

1) In this story, Alex wasn't abused at all as a kid. She had a relatively normal childhood. She's just kinky.

2) I picked age 12 because that's when puberty hit for me, and like I said in Chapter 2, it hit with a vengeance. It was a very confusing time for me, because I started having very intense feelings for girls in a religious household, I started having dreams and sexual fantasies about rape and power, and I had NO idea why I thought blowjobs were so hot, but men were so icky. Like Olivia said, my (very few) friends were mostly concerned with kid-stuff, and my sexuality came barreling out of nowhere, almost fully formed even at age 12. It took me several more years to deal with the complicated feelings that came with it. Also, although Alex's experiences are very loosely based on mine, it's certainly not a straight retelling of my life. It's entirely fictional, and Alex is still... well, Alex.

3) I chose first person for this tale because I really want to dig into Olivia's feelings, and the themes of the story required a lot of inner monologues. I've used first person extensively before, mostly in original fiction, but I've dabbled with it in L&O land as well, if you look at some of my older stories.


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